


Forever Hell's

by Uniasus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Branding, Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: Crowley knew if Hell found out he'd rescued Aziraphale he'd get more than a rude note.He did it anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	Forever Hell's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> WhitelyFoster - who's amazing btw - created a [beautiful piece of fanart](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the) that dared a bunch of writers to write. Needless to say, I couldn't resist the draw myself. Her work is just so inspiring.
> 
> This is also inspired by the Wayword Children's series because it's written from a presenting God (3rd person omniscient) POV and I wanted to try my hand at that.

Strife, discord, beheadings. They're to demons what sugar is to ants, something to descend upon. Fest upon. Consume the essence of and stick it in your core. The larger the dismay, the more death, the more demons swarm, and Crowley learned early on that he if he took credit for such situations, if he declared them _his_ before the nastiness boiled over, he raised his reputation in Hell and gained an excuse to not stick around. He could feint having had his fill of despair or being busy planning the next disaster.

The French Revolution and the guillotine were not his, nor could he take the credit. So he showed up, like a proper demon would, to watch the show. An excellent thing in hindsight, because it put him close by to save Aziraphale. To recognize his aura and get him out before the angel's presence was noticed by another demon. To pull up the power for a curse, swap some clothes, befuddle some humans, and walk out the door with an angel on his arm and an executioner behind them in chains.

He grabbed lunch with Aziraphale to spend time with the angel. Crowley would always help him. Always do anything he could for Aziraphale because you can't help who you're in love with. Can't help it when love blinds you, overrules rational thought, and puts others' safety before your own.

The French Revolution was in full swing. It attracted dozens of demons. They all watched their favorite executioner lose his head. They all wondered why.

Together, they solved the puzzle.

A human wearing clothes smelling of ethereal power.

A cell, with chains mildly blessed from contact with a holy body, that held the lingering scent of camphor.

A creperie, whose waitstaff recalled two patrons unconcerned about the events around them. One dressed in the garb of an executioner, the other in black with tinted glasses and a tattoo near his ear.

Crowley, no longer there.

They made Eric play messenger, as always. They expected the messenger to be flayed and he had disposable bodies.

"We believe, Duke Hastur, that the demon Crawly rescued an angel."

* * *

Why demons exist has a simple answer – God made angels so after they turned against Heaven - but the answer to why they turned against Heaven will vary from demon to demon. However, you'll find commonalities if you collect all the stories. Wanting more – more info, more power, more items. Wanting freedom – of thought, of action. Wanting the things Heaven couldn't provide, wouldn't provide. Wanting change.

Falling granted the wishes of some demons. It did not grant the wishes of all.

It fully granted the wishes of Lucifer. Satan. Everything he couldn't have in Heaven. The items he desired. The power to create and lead the world he wanted, even if that world was Hell. Part of the power meant that his hatred of Heaven, of God, was something all demons should share.

What Heaven is, Hell is not. What angels do, demons do not.

"We form our own world," Satan told them all. "We have the free will to do that, and who would ever want to return to where we were unhappy?"

Who indeed?

The few, who regretted the choice. The few, who saw Satan as no less overbearing, no less controlling than God but oh so crueler.

Lucifer had started a rebellion, and as such Satan knows the steps to prevent another and not lose his throne. Fear and isolation. Punish crimes severely. Praise those to turn in friends. Ensure any rebellions would be small, easy to kill. Not worth another.

To his dukes and lords, he declared one crime the worst than any other. An affront to their history, to their battle, to the death of their kin.

Trying to get back into Heaven.

And what was freeing an angel from chains but a way to get into God's good grace? To sway an angel to speak on your behalf?

"Remind my demon, Crawly," Satan told Duke Hastur, "That he is forever mine."

* * *

Because love is blind, or rather, blinding, Crowley saw nothing but Aziraphale's smile while they dined. Was mesmerized by the sun in his hair on the way to Soho. Eyed only the angel while he poured a glass of wine.

Home though, in the dark walls and humid corners, he opened his eyes to the consequences of what he'd done. He'd been kind. He'd been loving. He'd been all this to the enemy. Perhaps no one would notice. Perhaps no demon had all the clues.

Crowley sowed discord, at least upon the executioner. He'd prevented an angel of the Lord from addressing hundred of people and stopping the Revolution. Certainly, Hell would accept that.

He stepped on something soft on his hard, cement floor.

He looked down to see one, no three, now a tablespoon, a cup, an ever-growing pillar of maggots rise from the floor. Crowley stepped back, calculating if he should run or talk his way out of this.

The maggot pillar grew a limb and it snatched Crowley's arm as the maggots were absorbed into the pale, mealworm skin of a blonde man in shabby clothes. He smiled, showing rotten teeth.

"Do you think you can Rise?" Duke Hastur asked. "I'll show you why you can't."

* * *

For all that the rebellion fought for freedom, Hell had no more than Heaven. Crowley didn't have the answers he had desired either. But just as he hadn't minded Heaven, he didn't mind Hell either. He was wily; learned the system and worked within it. Being a demon just meant he was better at it than before.

He didn't know why Lucifer had turned into power-hungry Satan. He didn't know why Satan insisted on being the opposite of Heaven, though if he did he might call it an epoch-long tantrum.

What he knew was that you couldn't take back your choice. You chose to not believe in Heaven, you Fall, and that was it. Going back on that choice was an insult to the pain and struggle of every single demon.

Crowley had no desire to Rise. Reverse his decision, fly up to Heaven and ask for mercy and forgiveness. His choice to rescue Aziraphale had nothing to do with that, and everything with Crowley's desire to see the angel safe. And to keep Crowley safe? Well, he wasn't sure what was worse – letting Hell believe he'd been kind to show he desired a change or because he fell in love.

Love, after all, was at the root of many Falls. Why did God love the humans more? Why did love cause pain? Why, despite loving them all, had God abandoned them? Ignored them? Why were there wrong things to love?

And so, Crowley remained silent. Took the hits, the slashes of the knife. Felt his clothes rip, his kidneys bruise.

"Why did you do it?" Hastur asked, over and over until Crowley spat out blood.

"What did you think you'd get in return?" Hastur asked, over and over until Crowley's twenty nailbeds and linked black scales bleed red.

There are demons who hated the lack of power they had in Heaven. The inability to make a change, to be voices heard. Falling gave them power, of a sort. They changed their place in the world and had little restrictions.

Heaven's rules of "say please" and "ask nice" got burned up as easily as angel wings and demons could do what they wanted to get a Hellish result. Hastur could do as he pleased to Crowley and no one would care.

"Keep your secrets, Crawly," Hastur said, "But don't forget we keep you."

* * *

Hell is not a physical place, for all the weight it has. The walls are damp and cool, the air blistering hot, the smell is mildew and sour milk in spots, sulfur and urine in others. The beings that walk it are vast, stretching across seven planes. They cross through walls, through matter, even as they stuff themselves in forms for easy plane compression. Demons were made in the image of God, they live as the image of man.

It is far easier to fit a thousand human-shapes in a room on the third plane then a thousand true-shapes in a room on the seventh.

And because Hell is not perceptible, though it tries to be, time is fluid. Old ideas are new, new ideas are old, and Crowley knows what's in Hastur's hands though it doesn't exist yet on Earth. Oh, branding wasn't new, but it would be centuries until the symbol on the end of that iron bar would be known as the name echoing in Crowley's head.

_Leviathan Cross. Satan's Cross._

An inverted double-cross, with the bottom of the vertical line twisting into an infinity symbol. The opposite of the symbol of the Holy Trinity. The actual symbol for entirety.

"Our Lord wants you to remember something, Crawly," Hastur said. He rotated the brand slowly in one hand over the flame he cupped in the other. "You chose to Fall."

Crowley hadn't, actually. He'd never wanted to _leave_ Heaven. Just wanted it to be better.

"You chose to Fall," Hastur said again, and the fire reflected in his eyes, cold and bright. "And there are no take-backs in Hell."

He pressed the brand into Crowley's exposed shoulder, pressed Crowley's shoulder into the back of the chair he sat tied to.

Crowley screamed, at the pain, yes, but also at the sick slide of _something_ entering his bloodstream. It burned like venom, even as Crowley's awareness of Hell jumped into sharp relief. He could feel the fire burning on plane two, breathe in the ash from plane six, and pin-point the largest source of power.

Crowley turned his attention to Satan, and Satan turned his attention back.

 _I'm a part of you now, Crawly,_ Satan said, _I'm in under your scales, nestled in your down, a bit of air in your lungs you will never exhale. And I am Hell. You will never be rid of this place, of me. You are mine and will be for eternity._

The venom-burn faded. Crowley's perception narrowed back to the cell he was kept in. It was empty, Hastur gone, cooling brand on the floor, but Crowley ignored that, searching his body for the piece of himself Satan implanted.

His new brand burned, pain radiating down his left arm while the taste of burnt skin settled on his tongue.

Crowley was already marked. The brand on his face he didn't mind – it was the point of contact between his true self and his corporation. Skin deep only, and looked cool. But this new one had been applied to a corporation and yet also on his snake underbelly. He wasn't bleeding on the third plane; the wound cauterized. But it dripped ruby blood on the others.

* * *

There's a fear in Hell that doesn't exist, didn't exist in Heaven. Both can be terrible places, this is true, but most angels would help an injured companion.

Most demons think _easy target_ or _glad that's not me_ or _someone to avoid for my protection._

No one helped Crowley drag himself back to the surface, as near as it could be called. No one bothered him either, for which he was glad.

Slowly, with broken bones, a lack of nails, and a trail of blood Crowley made it home. Collapsed on his bed. Slept.

And woke, decades later, when Satan whispered into his mind _Did you dream of being an angel? I can assure you, you are forever mine._

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, trying and failing to suppress his shiver. He'd never wanted Hell, but that would never matter.


End file.
